Hello, Lonely
by crackers4jenn
Summary: Yet another one of those postNFA Spuffy reunion fics. Starting up again isn't as easy as it sounds, especially when you've got the emotional baggage that Spike and Buffy have.


Of course Buffy knew Spike was back. How could she not? Andrew wasn't exactly known for being tightlipped. So Spike showing up shouldn't have been surprising. But it was. It was everything Spike: unexpected, unannounced, and uninvited. It was dramatic. Of course, we _are_ talking Spike here, the same vampire who came to town knocking over the Sunnydale sign. The one whose big hello was a declaration of his killing her. Kidnapping her friends, Gem of Amara, a shiny, earned soul. Typical, dramatic, over-the-top Spike.

"Gonna invite me in?" he asks lightly, leaning casually against the door frame.

She obliges, widening the space so that he can slip through. His eyes leave hers as he steps past, and he gives the small space that is her apartment a once-over, putting a lengthy distance between the two.

"Nice set-up," he says, turning to face her.

She pushes the door shut, glaring at him as she folds her hands across her chest. "Cut the crap, Spike."

His casual look shifts into surprise, staying that way for a few seconds before understanding comes shining through. He shakes his head, chuckling lightly. "So you knew, then."

"That you were apartment appraising with Angel? That you were back? That you've _been_ back for more than a year and never bothered to clue me in?" She snorts out a bitter breath of air. "Yeah, I knew."

Try as she might, she can't keep the hurtful tone out of her words. It slips in, unguarded, Buffy feeling uncomfortably vulnerable for the first time in a long while. Two years ago, if you would've told her she'd be on the hurting end of something Spike had done, and it wasn't physical, she'd have laughed. No way, no how, because she never would've let Spike in. Not like that. Sure there was the drama of her and Spike's sexual relationship, Spike's fun, special way of courtship (poetic lines in the form of "You belong in the dark with me" and her favorite, more popularly used, "You came back wrong"), not to mention Mishaps Of The Bathroom Variety - but the emotional kind of hurt? The stinging kind, the betrayal she felt? Far from imaginable, yet currently making its presence known.

"I wanted to tell you," he tells her, not bothering to look apologetic. "I tried to tell you. Just... didn't."

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It's hours later and Spike's still at Buffy's. They're sitting awkwardly on her second-hand couch, an entire unoccupied cushion between them as they stay noticeably distant. Conversation is uncomfortable, feeling forced and new. Spike does his part to explain his current visit. Apparently there was a big battle in Los Angeles, a show-down of Good vs. Evil. Funny how once upon a time ago Buffy would've been invited. Hell, screw the invites, she would've been the one throwing the party to begin with. Now she's learning about it weeks afterwards from one of the three survivors, listening as he talks proudly of his friends and co-workers and the fight they endured.

Spike has friends and co-workers. It's a bit surreal, and more than a little hard to swallow.

"So, yeah," he tells her, shrugging, making the cushions behind them restrict with his movement. "The Poof skipped off with Nina right afterwards. Collected his affairs, connected flights, and is no doubt skulking about the shadows of Aruba." He turns to look at her, catching her eye. "That's his girlfriend, by the way."

Buffy shifts on the couch as he watches her, knowing he's trying to gauge her reaction. Her mouth feels dry, her throat tight. So Angel has a girlfriend. She can't help but wonder if it's his first since they broke up all those years ago, if maybe he's in love with this new girl. It's pathetic and it's embarrassing, but jealousy still flares up inside. She catches Spike's eyes, notices his smirk. "What?"

The smirk turns into a wide grin as he shrugs. "I knew you'd get all jealous and womanly at the thought of Angel moving on."

Maybe it's the surprising hurt that comes with the idea of Angel actually moving on, maybe it's the stupid grin spread across Spike's face, hell, maybe it's both, but goes-with-the-flow!Buffy quickly leaves the building, replaced with her inner-bitch. She doesn't have to channel very hard for it to appear. Flustered, she shoots to her feet, whirling around to face him. "Who do you think you are! Coming here, showing up like this--"

He looks equally outraged, jumping to his own feet. "So you _are_ jealous!"

"I am _not_ jealous!"

"Could've fooled me!" he counters, giving it to her as good as he's getting. "I mention your bloody ex having himself another sweetheart and you give me the cold shoulder!"

Her anger softens as she realizes how completely pointless it is to be having this argument. "It's not about Angel."

"Like hell. You're still hung up on him, still waiting for your happily-ever-after."

"I'm not hung up on him!" she snaps back defensively.

"Yeah," he snorts. "Try it again, but with a little more conviction."

She narrows her eyes at him, sending him a withering glare. "So this is what you're here for? To talk about Angel, to fight--"

"Hey, you're the one who started it."

"Me?" she shoots back. Realizing her jaw's hanging, she snaps it shut, unable to believe he's actually pointing the blame in her direction.

"Well, yeah, you were the one who got all dainty when I mentioned the Poof--"

"Oh, for the love..." she says, squeezing her eyes shut for the briefest of seconds. "Can we have two seconds of conversation fly by without you mentioning Angel? Because, seriously, I'm starting to wonder if maybe _you're_ not the one in love with him."

He scoffs, looking both horrified and annoyed. "_Please_, credit me with a little more dignity. Not to mention _taste_."

"Well stop bringing him up!"

"I'm not!"

Buffy widens her eyes, about ready to tick off a time stamped, color-coded, detailed list of every time Spike's brought Angel up in conversation the past few hours.

"Alright," he concedes, hands up in the air in mock-surrender. "But not for reasons you think."

"Please, explain the 'reasons' to me then."

He looks at her for half a second, not at all pleased with the amount of sarcasm laced in that response. "You know what?" he starts, eyes narrow, lips drawn thin. Then, "Forget it." He breaks eye contact with a disgusted snort, backing away from her. One swift turn of his heels and he's headed towards the door, black duster flapping at his heels.

She watches him go, more surprised than anything. Then it registers what he's doing. He's leaving. Mid-conversation, first time she's seen him in more than a year, on the losing end of an argument-- and he's bolting.

"Spike?"

He doesn't stop at her voice like she expects, like he's always done. Instead his steps slow until he's at the door, and then he's flinging it open. He stands there in the hollow space between the door frame, his hand on the doorknob, waiting for her to continue.

"You're leaving? That's it?"

She hears him chuckle, sees the sharp corners of his shoulders lift slightly. "'That's it'," he repeats, voice condescending and low. It pisses her off, him acting like this. Like she's the one who's supposed to fix everything-- like she's the one who broke it to begin with. He turns around then, half of his body still inside her apartment, the other half in the small aisle of the apartment building hallway. "Do you realize how little we ever actually accomplish?"

It's not something she expects him to say, and she doesn't know how to answer. "What do you mean?"

"I mean look at us," he says, gesturing with his free hand to the space between them. "All we do is run in circles, and for what?"

"I don't know," she admits, waiting for a point to be made.

"Exactly. You don't know. How long's it been since I felt this way? Going on four years now, Buffy. And I'm tired of it. I'm finished with it."

A little bubble of panic wells up inside, those words sounding dangerously close to rejection. He's finished with what? Her? Them? It's stupid and ridiculous because how the hell can he be _finished_ with something they never even started?

He looks at her for a few passing seconds, silence stretching between them. Another low, sarcastic chuckle falls from his lips before he steps backward, shaking his head. His booted foot is stepping into the hallway, the other half of his body following, and she hates it. Hates this weirdness between them that she thought they'd moved on from two years ago.

"What do you want me to say?" she blurts, her words effectively stopping him.

And he looks tired. He looks weary, staring at her with his hand still on the doorknob, ready to pull the door shut and leave. His eyes are light, she can see his barely repressed anger bubbling up behind them, making them dance and sparkle in the bright light of the room, but other than that he's surprisingly calm. "I don't want you to _say_ anything."

Defeated. That's it. So that's how it ends? Spike comes to Rome, Spike pushes himself right back into her life, and then just decides that it's over? Because, what? She's not hugging and kissing him and telling him how much more she prefers him over Angel? Because she's not stroking his ego and giving into their macho Who-Will-She-Choose bullshit?

"Then what _do_ you want?" she huffs. "Spell it out for me, Spike, because you obviously came here looking for something."

His eyes spark at that, and he takes a step forward, back into the room. "You're a smart girl, Slayer, you tell me."

Slayer? She very nearly rolls her eyes. So now they're playing the fun game of Be An Ass, him obviously wearing the crown.

"I think if I knew I wouldn't have asked."

"Or maybe you're just trying to be coy? Roundabout, as usual."

That does it. She stomps forward, her fists clenched at her sides. "Get off it."

His eyes widen, confused and surprised. "Get off it?"

"Yeah, get off it! I wasn't the one who spent the better part of last year ignoring _you_, Spike! You ignored me. You stayed away from me. I'm not the bad guy here, not this time."

"Right, so that makes me the bad guy."

"I guess so! One of us has to be, because _god forbid_ we have an actual conversation without dragging up the past."

"It's not the bloody past--" he's quick to deny, then stops. He sighs. "Maybe it is the past, Buffy, but we both know why. What you said..."

He trails off, not meeting her eyes and instead stares somewhere beyond her left shoulder.

"What I said," she prompts, not at all bothering to keep her frustration from showing.

Her little spark of fury has his eyes snapping back to hers, determined now. "What you said at the Hellmouth. The thing you said, the words... three little words, and you know damn well what I'm talking about."

Okay, the instant panic that wells up inside at his bluntness? Present and accounted for. The sudden instinct to flee, also accounted for. But there's something in his eyes that stops her from doing so. From blurting out the instinctive, 'You were right, I didn't mean it' she knows he's expecting. But it's still a huge step. Admitting she loves Spike? Or loved, past tense, two years ago? Yeah, hello Captain Obvious, it's a gigantic step, and one she's not sure she's even ready to take. It was easy enough to say the words, to admit to the feelings, strong and real as they were, when she knew he'd never get a chance to hear them again. Standing at the bottom of a Hellmouth that's mere minutes from collapsing on top of you? Sure, courage takes a front seat and gives you a good kick in the ass. You say things. Your life flashes before you, death number three looking like a distinct possibilty, and you grab what you can. What she grabbed just happened to be an admittance of love for someone she'd sworn a thousand times before she'd never love.

He widens his eyes in front of her, challenging, impatiently waiting. And how the hell did he get so close? Wasn't he just across the room? Wasn't _she_ just across the room? Now he's standing in front of her, their bodies so near she can feel the flaps of his duster brushing against her.

"Well, then?" he says, and it comes out like a dare. Dare her to prove him wrong. Dare her to fess up.

"Well what?" she barks back, defenses on high.

She ignores the annoyance that flashes across his face, instead stays intent on not breaking eye contact. "Well," he says slowly, heavily enunciating it as he takes a step closer. "What the bloody hell did you mean?"

Okay, and now everything is just a tad more panic-y. Tad? More like a truckfull of anxiety thrown on top of the mountain she'd already been feeling. Stupid Spike. She wasn't ready for this, he knew it. He couldn't just come into her life and expect to change it so drastically! Not when she'd already learnt to live without him, not when she'd already moved on.

God, this was so stupid.

She throws her hands up in frustration. "What does it matter?" she cries out, backing away from him. Away from that stupid piece of his duster, from the cold look in his eyes. "According to you, I didn't mean it anyway!"

"Knew that'd come back to bite me in the ass," he mutters.

"What?"

His eyes flick back to hers. "Nothing," he tells her, stepping forward to close the distance between them. "Buffy, what I said--"

"No you don't, but thanks for saying it," she mimics harshly.

"Yeah, that. When I said it, I didn't mean... it wasn't..." He trails off, his eyes squeezing shut. "Bollocks."

"No, tell me," she insists, still not ready to let this argument die. "What'd you mean? Because I've spent a _long_ time trying to figure it out myself."

"I meant... I don't know! It was the end! Credits were rolling, music picking up in the background... It's not like I expected it or anything!" She opens her mouth to reply, to tell him it's not like _she_ was expecting it either, but he continues quickly. "And you! Like I needed that? Couldn't have just said 'thank you', you had to make it all nice and tragic-like? Because it's one thing to die by the hands of a sodding Elizabeth Taylor knock-off, but ohhh, not quite good enough unless there's a romantic declaration of sort?"

"Yeah, I planned it all," she snorts back dryly. "Hey, Spike's dying, why not make it that much easier for him!"

"Please," he breathes out sarcastically, not missing a beat. "Spare me your ego."

She snaps back like she's been hit, his words slamming into her and hurting far more than she'd ever let him know.

Realizing what he said, he breathes out heavily. "Look, I didn't mean it like... Why can't you just admit it?"

"I did! I admitted it! I said I loved you and you died!"

"That doesn't always happen," he tells her tiredly, not bothering to show any expression at her admittance.

"Have you _seen_ my track record?"

"You can't just push me away because you're scared--"

"I'm not scared! I'm... I'm---" She straightens, decision made. "I'm not doing this."

"So that's it? Fly half-way 'round the world only to have you decide you're 'not doing this'?"

"Looks like."

"Like hell. Make a sodding choice. Me or him-- your new beau The Immortal. Tell me you love me, tell me you don't, tell me I was right for thinking you never did-- just tell me something."

"Spike..."

"Fine. You know what? You're right. This between us would never work. Be seeing you, Slayer."

He turns to leave, but she grabs at his forearm, stopping him. She pulls away before she lets herself feel the touch of him beneath her fingers, only holding on long enough for him to turn back around.

"So that's it?" she bites back, her voice flat and deceptively calm. "We're back to 'Slayer' and tension and weird mixed signals?"

"You've made your choice! What'd you expect?" he asks, his eyes blazing. "Think I'm gonna stick around for another go at playing your whipping boy? Sorry, love, moved on from that self-deprecating role. Got myself a bit of respect now-a-days."

"I don't want that," she answers with a sigh. "You know I don't."

"Then what _do_ you want?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you damn well do! You know exactly what you want but you're too afraid to say it."

"Well you sure as hell seem to know what I want. You tell me!"

"Why?" he says, taking a step forward. "Make things easier for you? Simple it up, that way you don't actually have to say the words?"

He stops just inches away, his head held level and his eyes locked with hers. Every muscle in her body is tense, Buffy feeling for the first time ways she hasn't felt in a year. Ready to kick ass. Ready to kick Spike's ass, namely. Her wrist is sore from keeping her hands locked at her sides, her jaw aching from having it clenched so tightly. And he mirrors her exactly. Jaw set, shoulders square, chest heaving, eyes narrow and unwavering.

His eyebrows shoot skyward. "Well?"

"I thought you were going?"

It's a cop-out, she knows it. She doesn't know why the hell she can't just admit she loved him. What does it matter now when he clearly doesn't love her back? When the man she did love isn't the one standing in front of her anymore?

"Right. Guess that's it then."

"Guess so," she retorts, still unwilling to budge. Stubborn as ever.

They stay like that for a few seconds. Seconds that feel like minutes, until all she can hear is her own heart pounding in her chest. All she can feel is the tension in the room, the tension between them. All she sees is him.

Finally he shakes his head. Before she has time to even register his movement, he's turned around and heading swiftly towards the open door. "Give my regards to The Immortal," is the last thing she hears before the door slams shut behind him.

She stays in the same spot, blinking at the door. Waiting for something. For the doorknob to rattle and Spike to come back in, because Spike doesn't leave like this. No, Spike is the annoying one who never leaves, no matter whether or not you actually want him there. Moments pass, the clock ticks loudly in the background, and everything is deathly still.

Like hell this is how it ends. Buffy flies forward, throwing open the door and stomping out before she has time to question herself. She doesn't have to go very far, because there's the bleach-haired pain in her ass standing in the middle of the hallway, waiting for the elevator. He looks surprised to see her, but it fades quickly, replaced with a look of indifference. He doesn't make any effort to cross the distance between them, making her go to him. Instead he takes a few steps backwards until his back hits the hallway wall, where he then leans against it, his head falling back against the tacky floral wallpaper in a show of exasperation.

Which only annoys her further.

"You're a jerk!"

His head snaps forward, his eyes wide. "I'm a what?"

"You heard me! You think you know me so well? You don't know me at all, Spike!"

"Know you a lot more than you'd like to think, Slayer."

"Stop calling me 'Slayer'," she yells, not caring how petulant she sounds. Not caring if old Mrs. Contandino down the hall hears either. "Why do you do that? I don't call you 'vampire', do I?"

"Buffy," he obliges, saying it in a way that just irritates her even further. Emotionless and sarcastic, overly-emphatic.

Before she can say anything, the elevator doors slide open with a ding. Both of them look inside. He hesitates just the slightest. Buffy can feel his eyes searching her face, but she doesn't meet them back. Can't meet them back. He doesn't say another word, just pushes off the wall, all sleek and lithe and rustling leather, and heads for the elevator.

And all her anger evaporates. Just like that. Instead she's exhausted. Tired of this game that they play, never saying what they actually mean.

"You're really leaving?"

He lets out a sigh, stopping right in front of the elevator. Stopping and standing there, not saying anything. The doors start to slide shut, but he still doesn't move. It makes another dinging noise, the doors close, and then there's the sound of the mechanical engine whirling as it descends without him, loud and strong until it's too far away to hear. The silence they're left with is deafening.

"This doesn't mean what you think," he finally ventures, falling against the wall again. Only sideways this time, leaning his shoulder square against it to stare at her. Looking as exhausted as she feels.

"And what do I think?" she asks back, only slightly berating herself for the snappy tone.

He doesn't seem to hear the edge in it. Or if he does, he's too tired to return it. "I'm not staying to play your whipping boy, Buffy."

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe I don't want you to?"

He bristles at that, looking hurt. He draws into himself, a frown on his face, donning that 'kicked puppy' look she's seen him wear way too much when it comes to their relationship, or lack thereof.

"I didn't mean it like that," she sighs. She moves to mirror his stance, leaning her weight against the wall in front of him. She chuckles breathlessly, humorlessly. "God, can we ever do anything right?"

The corner of his lip turns upward, and he smiles, ducking his head down. "Don't think we're wired that way, love."

And he called her 'love'. It does something internally, setting off a new, fresh, all too real wave of nervousness.

"I want you to stay," she tells him, and means it.

"Stay," he says back, repeating the word distastefully. "Buffy, I told you before--"

"I know, no whipping boy-Spike," she says, smiling softly. She understands. "I don't want that either. Besides, I've pretty much had my fill of it."

He looks confused. "Then what do you want? I only know the one role, Buffy. It's all you've ever let me be."

There's an accusation there, in his words. Some part of her wants to deny it, to throw it back on him. She never asked for him to love her. Hell, she remembers being quite insistent that he _not_ love her. But she's tired of arguing. "What do you want, Spike?"

He narrows his eyes at her. "You know what I want."

"Do I? Because I'm not sure you even know."

"Buffy," he says, pushing off the wall. He doesn't make any effort to step closer, but the action is intimate. It draws her back in, it cuts off everything again until it's just him and her. No hallway, no neighbors. Nothing outside of this conversation. "You know how I feel about you."

"No," she says softly, hating that he's making her sound so vulnerable. "I know how you used to feel about me, Spike."

"It hasn't changed. God help me, it hasn't changed." He takes another step closer, his voice much lower. "You're still the one."

"I don't think I am. Not anymore."

"Like hell," he snorts, looking at her like she's completely lost it.

"You don't even know me. Who I was last year... that's not me anymore."

"Same here," he murmurs in agreement. "I've changed... in more ways than you know. But I know I love you." He takes another step forward, his head tucked down to stare into her eyes. "Something that big, that deep... it doesn't just go away because of time. It hasn't gone away."

"Spike," she starts to say, breathing it out as a sigh.

"This here is it for me," he says, looking intently at her. Giving her that wholly devoted look she can still recall him giving her on several of those last nights in Sunnydale. The one that scares her with the intensity of it. "I told you before, you're the one. I don't get any better than this. I don't want any better than this."

He's in front of her now, staring at her so hopefully. So guardedly. Like he's expecting the worst, but hoping for something. Anything.

She can feel the words in her throat, her heart pounding in her ears. "What if I want better?"


End file.
